


In Your Light

by moodlighting



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Famous Harry, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Non-Famous Louis, Pining, South America, WIP Amnesty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-29
Updated: 2017-10-29
Packaged: 2019-01-23 07:32:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12502128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moodlighting/pseuds/moodlighting
Summary: It’s so hard being separated from Harry; Louis hates every minute of it, every mile of distance. But it’s also so much easier for Louis to fool himself into thinking he’s not in love with his best friend when he doesn’t have to be around Harry all the time. When he doesn’t have to pretend like he hasn’t been in love with Harry for the last ten years – maybe since the very first day they met, back when Louis was too young to know what it meant when he just wanted to make his best friend smile every day that he could.Famous/Non-Famous AU, in which Louis joins Harry on the South American leg of his tour.





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> By scrolling past this author's note you are essentially taking an ELECTRONIC BLOOD OATH with me that you are aware this is an _**unfinished work**_ , and this is likely as complete as it will ever be. It was 3/4 finished at the time I stopped writing, and I've included a final chapter that does describe all of the events I had planned to finish out the story, but if you won't be happy without a thorough ending, please don't read any further! I just don't want anyone to be disappointed.
> 
> That being said, a lot of work went into this fic and it's not doing me any good just languishing on my Google Drive. All of it was written from early 2015 to early 2016, so you'll have to forgive me for any significant differences between past and present 1D that are relevant to this story. Regardless of all these caveats, I do hope you enjoy it!
> 
> _For Kasia_  
> 

_'You should come on tour with me'_

Louis immediately drops his phone on his face upon reading the message. After work he hadn’t had the energy to do much more than change out of the shirt some dog had pissed on and collapse into bed to trawl through social media until sleep or death took him. Lying on his back with his phone held above his face, it had only been a matter of time before it fell, really.

“Ow,” Louis mutters to himself, pressing the heel of his palm to the bridge of his nose. He fumbles through the folds of his sheets until he finds the phone again and aggressively flops over onto his side, swiping open the message with a befuddled frown on his face.

 _‘What the fuck,’_ he sends back. 

 _‘You should come on tour with me?’_ Louis can almost hear the confused lilt of his voice, even over text.

_‘Okay???? What part of the world are you even in rn?? Can I call?’_

_‘Yeah, still in LA’_

Louis FaceTimes him instead. He’s promptly answered by a dizzying mess of motion as the call is presumably rushed out of some very important meeting. Louis hears a “Sorryyyy, be right back,” called out through all of the rustling.

“You could’ve just told me to wait!” Louis shouts into the microphone, hoping he can still be heard over the commotion.

Eventually the phone on the other end comes to a halt, Harry’s face dropping into view as he slides down to sit against a wall. He grins, a terrifyingly happy leer that has dimples carving into his cheeks. Louis desperately tries to tamp down his own responding smile and fails miserably.

“Didn’t wanna wait,” Harry says around that stupid grin. “Wanted to talk to you. ”

Louis hums. “You’re probably gonna get fired,” he retorts mildly.

“Nah,” Harry says. “S’just a writing session. I think I’m paying _them_.”

“What’s this? I thought Harry Styles wrote all of his own music, hmm?”

Harry shrugs. “Only the ones about you.” 

Louis snorts. “Yeah, yeah, whatever. I want the royalties.”

Harry grins again. He hasn’t really stopped grinning. 

If he were talking to anyone else, Louis would maybe be concerned with just how bad he looks on the tiny phone screen, his cheek mushed against the pillow and his hair drooping into his face. But he’s not. The front camera always adds at least an extra three days of grease anyway, he reasons.

Before Louis even has the chance to question the text message, Harry speaks up again. “What are you wearing?” he frowns, eyebrows drawing together as he brings his phone closer to his face.

Louis smirks. “Oooh, you wanna know what I’m _wearing_ , big boy?” he simpers, dropping his voice to a sexy sort of rasp.

Harry cackles, just like Louis knew he would. He can always count on Harry to never let one of his jokes fall flat.

“Not like that!” Harry crows. “It’s just, I think that shirt is mine.”

Louis cranes his neck to look down at what he’s wearing – he hadn’t been overly concerned about what he was changing into, blindly grabbing for whatever was at the top of his shirt drawer. It appears to be some sort of cream henley number. With the way it’s hanging loosely off his body, it is undoubtedly Harry’s.

“Hmm,” Louis agrees. “Guess it is. Not my fault you didn’t take all of your shit with you.”

“You probably squirreled it away so I couldn’t take it with me,” Harry retorts. “You can just buy things a size bigger if you want to artfully drape them over yourself like a curtain, you know.” He pauses for a moment, thinking to himself before he adds, “Not that you would know anything about curtains.”

It takes a moment for him to pick up on the innuendo, but when he does, Louis is forced to turn away from the camera, scowling in disgust. _Curtains, honestly._ “That was god-awful, Harry. Jesus.”

“Sorry, sorry!” he laughs. “It sounded a lot funnier in my head!”

“Please, just don’t repeat it,” Louis sighs, exasperated. “Why did I call you again?”

Still giggling, Harry replies, “Because I asked you to come on tour with me?”

“Oh, right, yeah. What the fuck?”

“Louuuuuu,” Harry whines. “C’mon! You said you would!”

“I said no such thing.”

“Yes, you did! On November eleventh, the day I released my second single. I asked if you would come on that first tour with me and you said, and I quote, ‘Maybe when you’re famous, Styles,’ because you’ve always been a dickhead.”

Damn, Louis thinks, Harry has way too many receipts on him. He should’ve been a bookkeeper instead of a popstar. “And you think you’re famous now or something, Styles?” he challenges. 

“Probably as famous as I’ll ever be. You’ve gotta strike while the iron is hot, Lou. Pretty soon I’ll be back to slumming it with you, watching trash telly and begging you to play with my hair and shit.”

Louis can’t help but think that the millions of dollars sitting in Harry’s bank account will more than likely ease him into an early retirement fairly painlessly, but he doesn’t mention it. “Wow, you remember our cohabitation a lot differently than I do,” he remarks. As if Harry crawling into bed with him to watch telly on early weekend mornings wasn’t one of the highlights of Louis’ entire life.

“We’re getting off topic,” Harry sighs. “The point is is that I want you there, so you should come.”

“And Harry Styles always gets his way, doesn’t he?”

Harry sighs even more deeply. “Now you’re just being difficult.”

Good. Harry needs a challenge every now and then, and Louis has always been the one there to provide that for him. Harry is working up to a full pout now, lips turned down, green eyes big and pleading, and Louis has to resist the urge to start backpedaling. He knows Harry’s pulling the face on purpose but goddamn it if Louis isn’t easy for it. Isn’t _always_ easy for Harry.

He would never deliberately want to make Harry sad either. “I can’t just leave work, Haz,” he says, softening his voice.

“But when was the last time you even took a holiday?” Harry argues. “Probably not since you graduated.” Louis looks up at the ceiling, doing the math in his head. That sounds about right but he doesn’t want to say so. “I’m right, aren’t I?” Harry continues. “Don’t you think you deserve a break? It doesn’t even have to be a long one, just a couple of weeks. And I’m giving you plenty of notice, tour doesn’t start again until next month.”

Asking for more information feels a lot like defeat, but Louis asks anyway. “Which leg would it be?”

“South America. It’ll be warm, probably by the ocean. You can go surfing. There’ll be pools at the hotels too, and I’ll let you get room service even though it’s bad for you. We can go to all of those horrible tourist places you love…” Harry tempts. “You’ll get to be with your best friend Harry…” 

It’s not a bad package, all things considered. And Louis is actually considering it now. “Hmm. Sounds okay, I guess,” he says. “Not sure about that Harry bloke, though. Will Niall and Zayn be there at least?” 

Harry pouts again. “Louuuu,” he whines.

Louis laughs. “I’m not like, opposed to the idea, Harry. I just don’t know how I would even go about paying for it,” he says, scratching at his left eyebrow.

Harry levels him with a look. “Louis. You haven’t let me buy you any birthday or Christmas gifts for years because you told me to ‘save up for something good,’” he says. Which is true – Louis had secretly been hoping Harry would think it was funny to buy him a new car. “This is something good. Let me do it for you.”

It’s not something that Louis worries himself over, the fact that Harry has a lot of money, or that he spends it freely. More often than not he is spending it on others – on his family, his friends, Louis’ siblings, and anyone and everyone in between. Louis makes a decent enough wage as a veterinary nurse to live comfortably, so it’s never been an issue of pride for him. The birthday and Christmas thing had really only come about because Louis couldn’t think of anything to get Harry in return a couple of years ago and it seemed like an easy out.

Louis has never been one to deny Harry’s generosity. Harry likes being able to do things for the people he loves – probably gets off on it even, the freak – and his spending has never been too lavish in the past, so Louis has never felt like he’s taking advantage of him. Whenever he and Harry do do things together they always try to split the cost, no matter how much shinier Harry’s bankcard is. Their friendship always comes before Harry’s status, which is why Louis often finds himself asking, if it were Liam, or Stan, would the same rules apply? To Louis, an all-expenses-paid holiday feels a lot like overstepping a line.

There probably isn’t anyone in the world that knows Louis better than Harry, so he notices his hesitation, of course. 

“If the money thing bothers you we can work something out,” he assures. “There aren’t that many expenses anyway. My tour manager organizes all of the hotel stuff, so I don’t even know how you would comp me for that. They don’t let me in on my finances.” They both laugh. Like Harry has ever been in charge of his finances. Anne’s careful eye is probably the only reason both of them stayed in the black the entire time they lived together. “It would just be airfare and food, really.”

Louis turns the idea over in his mind. He and Harry haven’t been in the same city – let alone on the same continent – for months now, and there’s almost nothing Louis wants more than to be able to dick around in South America with Harry for a few weeks. Their separation over the last couple of years hasn’t exactly been easy, not after they spent the better part of a decade tucked in each other’s pockets, separated only by the back gardens of their childhood homes or the walls of their London flat. Though he’d never admit to it, on most days Louis misses Harry like he misses the days when he didn’t have to like…pay bills. Simpler times, just like how life is always simpler when Harry’s around, more comfortable. And it’s not only a nostalgia thing, but a desperate longing for this person who’s been such a solid part of Louis’ life for so long that he feels uneven without him. Like he’s not entirely himself.

Liam might have a point about his and Harry’s codependency, but Louis would never admit to that either.

“You don’t have to decide now or anything. Just think about it,” Harry says, breaking through Louis’ thoughts. “I, um. I just really want you to be there,” he chuckles, a bit awkwardly. Then he adds – so softly it feels like he’s in bed next to Louis rather than thousands of miles away, “…I miss you, Lou.” 

That settles it then. Louis would never want to see Harry unnecessarily unhappy, so if there’s a way for him to put an end to that sad, almost embarrassed little smile on Harry’s face, Louis will do it. 

“No need to even think about it,” Louis scoffs, like Harry’s the one who’s been being ridiculous about the whole issue. “Of course I’m gonna go.”

Louis watches as Harry’s face slowly transforms into a huge, delighted grin, brightening the entire phone screen. He’s powerless against his own smile, widening in return.

They talk for a while longer, making plans between trading complaints about their weeks, until Harry remembers he’s actually in the middle of a session, and Louis decides he ought to get up and make himself something to eat before he does die in his bed. They say their goodbyes and Louis hangs up, immediately throwing his phone down to the end of the mattress, far enough away from him that he won’t be able make any more bad decisions. He rolls over onto his stomach, arms straight at his sides and face buried in his pillow – a universal position of defeat. Harry Styles – the same Harry Styles who was just his annoying little neighbor, following him around until Louis’ patience and resistance wore thin, the same boy Louis watched grow out of soft sixteen year old skin and grow taller than him, the same Harry Styles Louis has been with through bad haircuts and breakups and burgeoning fame – should not have this much power over him.

“What am I doing,” Louis groans helplessly into his pillow.

It’s so hard being separated from Harry; Louis hates every minute of it, every mile of distance. But it’s also so much easier for Louis to fool himself into thinking he’s not in love with his best friend when he doesn’t have to be _around_ Harry all the time. When he doesn’t have to pretend like he hasn’t been in love with Harry for the last ten years – maybe since the very first day they met, back when Louis was too young to know what it meant when he just wanted to make his best friend smile every day that he could.

*

“I should probably just not go, right? Like, this is a terrible idea. Tell me it’s a terrible idea and that I should just not go.”

Liam and Lottie are over at Louis’ flat under the pretense of watching X Factor and having a few drinks, though Louis rather gets the feeling that they’re both just here to laugh at him.

“Mate, what’s the difference between pining after him from London and pining after him while you’re with him? It won’t be any different than when you were pining after him when you were practically boyfriends,” Liam says. “Living together in sin.” 

“We were never ‘practically boyfriends,’” Louis protests with a frown. “We dated other people.”

Lottie hums. “Did you, though?”

Frankly, Louis can’t really remember all of the details. His brain is always a mess of _Harry Harry Harry_ , things can sometimes get a bit fuzzy. He thinks they did. Louis has definitely dated other people. It might not have ever been a long-term thing, but he has seen other people. He’s at least _looked_ at other people, that technically counts as seeing. 

“Yes, of course,” Louis huffs. “And we weren’t ‘living in sin’ either. We’ve never even _kissed._ ”

Liam makes a strangled noise. “You’ve never _kissed_?!” he cries out in disbelief. “Bullshit.”

Well, maybe once or twice, when they were drunk. But Louis doesn’t have any recollection of those, so if they have actually kissed, it doesn’t count. Louis would want to remember every kiss he were to share with Harry. 

“Yes, Liam,” he snaps, his impatience with the topic darkening his tone. Louis doesn’t like to be reminded of his chronic failures. “I just said that.”

“Oh lord, it’s worse than I thought. You’ve been carrying this torch way too long, bro,” Liam says, gesturing at him meaningfully with his beer bottle. “You need to blow out the torch!”

“Think he’d rather blow something else,” Lottie remarks, smirking over at Louis where he’s sprawled out on the armchair in anguish.

That was far too easy of a set up – Louis won’t even dignify it with a response. He wrinkles his nose up at her and takes a pointed sip of his beer. “I wouldn’t even know how to blow out the torch at this point,” he laments. “You’d think _something_ over the years would have worked but I guess I live life only to be disappointed.”

“I don’t see what the problem is then,” Lottie says. “Nothing has changed, so there’s no reason you shouldn’t go on tour with him. You’ll just continue to be disappointed.” 

“Well maybe I don’t _want_ to be disappointed anymore,” Louis replies, peevish. “Maybe it’s better that I’m not around him, being all sad and pining-like. If you two are annoyed with me, imagine how I feel.”

“You miss him though,” Liam puts in. “This is probably the longest you’ve gone without seeing each other. Are you even still alive?”

“Hmm. Thought so.”

They’re all silent for a minute, eyes glazing over as they watch the commercials fade in and out on the television screen. It makes Louis feel restless. He shifts around on the armchair agitatedly, trying to make himself comfortable.

“Maybe it’s like, the _idea_ of him I’m clinging on to,” he starts again, drawing their attention back to him. “We haven’t spent more than a few days together in the past year. He could be a huge asshole now and I wouldn’t even know.”

The thing is, no one actually expects their best friend to end up famous. No matter how big Harry’s dreams were, or how supportive and encouraging Louis was of them, Louis never actually anticipated Harry to achieve the success he has, for him to become a celebrity, a household name. In hindsight though, Louis really ought to have seen it coming.

Even before he moved to London, Louis had known that Harry would follow him there, just like he’d been doing ever since they were kids. He wasn’t Louis’ shadow, though – hadn’t been that since he was a cherub-cheeked little boy. No, Harry was Louis’ constant; always ready to go on the next adventure with him, always by Louis’ side, his comfort. But while Louis had left home for uni, Harry had moved to the city to play music. He'd busked on the streets, played every open mic night he could get to by tube, did everything he could to make a name for himself. And it had worked. Louis watched Harry move from standing on street corners with his open guitar case to clubs – and not just the shit ones they went to together on Saturday nights. Real music venues, with real audiences who were there to see _Harry_.

It wasn’t easy in the beginning. Louis has had a vicious jealous streak his entire life, and it was a lot for him to have to share Harry’s attention – for Harry to revel in attention that wasn’t _Louis’_. But Louis took comfort in the fact that he would always be the one who had been there _first_ ; the first to hear Harry sing like he meant it, the person who had Harry’s first autographs, whether they were from the secondary school assignments they did together or the napkin he made Harry sign in a café the day after he booked his first big show. Louis would always be Harry’s first – and biggest – fan.

Louis was not good at sharing Harry, but in his heart, Louis knew he wasn’t. Not really. Harry was giving a piece of himself to others – his music – but no one really knew him like Louis did, didn’t have all of him. It was a possessive way to think, and self-interested in the worst way, but Louis had never claimed to be a saint. So he got through it, and he got over it. And it was never actually as big of a deal as he made it out to be in his head. 

Until it was. The son of some American with a big name and a bigger reputation ended up at one of Harry’s shows, and Harry had talked about it for _weeks_ afterward, telling Louis all about Jeff and the texts they exchanged and how “This really might be it, Lou,” with that tender sparkle in his eye that Louis had never had the heart to temper. Texts eventually led to trips, to Harry staying in LA for a week, and then for weeks at a time. Then suddenly he was a signed artist, working in the studio on an album that had been guaranteed to sell. And it did. And then he was gone. 

Louis never thought his Harry Styles would end up being _Harry Styles,_ with all that the name now implies, but he’s had enough time and tears to come to terms with that by now. Any shred of bitterness has faded, and he’s just so unstoppably _happy_ for Harry that Louis doesn’t think there’s anything left in him besides pride. As biased as he may be, Louis knows there’s no one more deserving than Harry to have his talent recognized; to be universally adored by critics and fans and mums and dads and apparently the entire music industry too. He’s genuine, and he’s lovely, and his kindness and glaring positivity shine so bright that he can’t be overlooked. And Louis loves him more than he’s ever been able to say.

So Louis knows Harry hasn’t _actually_ turned into a huge asshole, but the thought of having to spend uninterrupted time with him after so much time apart – time that allowed certain feelings to quell and conquer – quite literally strikes fear in Louis’ weary little heart.

Most people would never think to call Louis a coward: he doesn’t back down from a fight he can win, never one to not speak his mind when it matters, always there to step forward and defend, Tooth-and-Nail Tomlinson. But one of the few things that can turn Louis into a coward are his own feelings, especially when he isn’t confident in how they’d be received – more than a decade’s worth of friendship or not. 

“You’re being dumb. You _know_ he’s not an asshole,” Lottie groans, tossing the crumpled-up wrapper she’d dredged up from the couch cushions at Louis’ head. An all-too-familiar devilish look creeps up onto her face then, and Louis knows what’s coming next before she even says it. “But how will you ever know for sure if you don’t go and find out?” she dares.

Well. Louis has never been one to forfeit a direct challenge before.

*

Louis realizes quickly that nothing makes time pass more slowly than having a tropical vacation within sight and reach. His work was never particularly glamorous in the first place, but once Louis has purchased his plane tickets and wrestled the oversized duffel out from the back of his closet, spending his time sticking thermometers up dog assholes and draining cat wounds doesn’t seem very glamorous at all.

Nevertheless, the suitcase in the middle of his bedroom floor does start to fill – slowly but surely – as Louis begins haphazardly throwing in whatever he deems necessary to take along to South America. His messages thread also grows greater in size over the weeks, with each painstakingly crafted picture Harry sends him every day, counting down the days left until Louis arrives. Each message is unique, a work of art in and of itself: the number twenty-four spelled out with handful of green beans on a dinner plate, the number seventeen a carefully arranged collection of pebbles pressed into a patch of California dirt, ‘two weeks’ traced on a fogged up mirror like a bad horror movie, ‘eight days’ written on a restaurant table with some folded bendy straw wrappers – a grinning Niall visible sitting in the booth across the table – and ‘FOUR DAYS LEFT!’ spelled out with headscarves – a neatly placed fedora dotting the exclamation point.

Quite frankly, Louis thinks Harry has _way_ too much free time on his hands, though the daily messages never fail to make him smile. Harry is nothing if not incredibly charming. Even though he’s been traveling the world for his job for years, and the trip to South America won’t be nearly as thrilling for him as it will be for Louis, Harry is still so excited for Louis to come along. And that is absolutely devastatingly endearing, much to Louis’ horror.

Harry’s enthusiasm has gotten him through a lot of things before though, and it’s that same enthusiasm that gets Louis through the month and a half he has to spend waiting for his holiday to arrive.

After such a lengthy test of his (admittedly limited) patience – topped off by a perfectly agonizing last week at work – arriving at the airport should feel like a breath of fresh air for Louis. But now, as he folds himself into the familiar hustle and bustle of Heathrow, Louis feels like he’s both the closest and furthest he’s been from freedom yet. He’s hours early, and the airport is exactly as exhausting as he remembers it to be. He makes it through security relatively unscathed and fights his way through the crowds to find his gate, only to get there and realize that he has nothing to do but count down the hours left until his flight. Sitting in the stiff plastic chair surrounded by strangers and luggage, Louis is nearly vibrating in place with the anticipation of it all. He hasn’t flown in years, and if that wasn’t exciting enough on its own, he’s practically flying directly into Harry’s arms. Despite some of his earlier reservations, the whole thing is pretty much a dream come true for Louis, any way you look at it.

He eventually gives up his seat a few dull hours later once he’s grown tired of mindless people watching. Shouldering his backpack, Louis ventures away from the gate to peruse the shops and find whatever subpar restaurant he’ll have to buy an exceptionally overpriced airport dinner from. He settles for a burger after one lap around the food court, and the only good thing about it turns out to be the opportunity he has to send a countdown picture to Harry once he’s finished. He scrawls out ‘boarding soon !!’ on the greasy wrapper with his extra ketchup, arranging his discarded pickles into a smiley face off to the side. He receives a picture back from Harry right away: ‘me too,’ spelled in cursive loops with a pair of headphone cords on garish airport carpet. Louis grins to himself, alone in his booth. He really can’t wait to see Harry again; it’s killing him slowly, now more than ever, and their silly messages only serve to remind him of the immediacy of that reunion.

The airport quickly loses any and all entertainment value soon after that.

By the time Louis is seated between a pair of strangers and the plane is taxiing down the runway, it’s been four and half hours since he first arrived at Heathrow, and Louis is already sick of people and planes and the entire airline industry as a whole. And he still has a nine-hour flight to get to his two-hour layover in Miami. His only comfort remains in the fact that Harry will be there to meet him when he does arrive. They’d spent far too much time meticulously planning out their itineraries to end up with overlapping layovers and on the same flight to South America – mainly to avoid having to find each other in the chaos of customs in Bogotá, but also just to get to each other sooner. 

Before the plane begins to lift off the ground, Louis sends off one final text to both Harry and his mum, puts his headphones in, rests his head back, and prays that sleep will come quickly…

He wakes up from his fitful rest five hours later, feeling dazed and irritable, burdened with the unshakeable knowledge that sleeping on a plane is fucking impossible. Without a travel pillow or a familiar shoulder to rest his head on, Louis’ best option had been to sleep with his arms folded on the tray table. Which he’ll be feeling in his neck for days now, no doubt.

Wearily, Louis rubs the crusted airplane air out of his eyes and pulls out his steadily dying phone to check the time. It’s only a little after ten, but it feels like a life age has passed already. Louis sighs deeply and dramatically to himself. Leaning forward, he peers around the woman to his right to sneak a peek out the window, where he’s met only by the vast darkness of nighttime sky. Uninspired, Louis throws his head back into the headrest and attempts to stretch the stiffness out of his limbs. Just as he decides he’s likely to never regain feeling in his bum again, a new song begins to play through his headphones, temporarily distracting Louis from his discomfort.

_I may not always love you, but as long as there are stars above you…_

It’s then that Louis is hit by a sudden and brilliant idea. He scrambles to open his message thread with Harry.

 _‘We’re doing a dramatic airport reunion. Love Actually style, you know the one’_ he says. _‘And you better fucking catch me’_

Harry sends back a single smiling purple devil emoji, followed by _‘Better make it good, I wanna see someone cry’_

*

An unexpected thrash of nerves settles in Louis’ stomach as he emerges from the jet bridge into the Miami airport. He still feels weighed down, both from the long flight and by the thought of the hours he has left to travel, but he’s struck at the same time by the realization that he and Harry are now _in the same building_. Even though it’s a very big building, the idea leaves Louis feeling a little giddy nevertheless.

Stopping by to check the departures board, Louis is pleased to discover that their flight is actually still on time, and that the gate is even located in the same terminal he’s already in. Which saves him from what would have likely been long, lonely trek across the airport. It really is his lucky day, Louis thinks, and he sets off toward the other end of the terminal with a determined march to his step, keeping a sharp eye out for any tall, familiar figures wandering about.

The airport is significantly less busy at this time of night, the air around Louis filled with only the ambient hum of distant travel-induced stress and the intermittent chatter of frequent fliers sweeping by him on the moving walkways. It’s actually quite peaceful, in its own white noise sort of way, and Louis could maybe even enjoy the quiet if he wasn’t so determined to resent the hassle of traveling so much. His gaze shifts between each of the gates as he passes them by, searching among the scattered clusters of sleepy travelers, taking in the sterile, whimsical designs on the walls that seem to be standard for all airports. Not much in the way of stimulation, airports. At least the chairs look softer here.

Further down the terminal, Louis is just admiring a particularly enormous fake potted plant when a tall, be-hatted figure in the distance catches his eye. He’s walking in the same direction as Louis, back turned to him, but even from far away Louis can recognize that wretched posture and curly hair and shuffling gait. His heart stirs in his chest, picking up into a tumbling rhythm, and Louis allows himself a single lovelorn sigh that he only hates himself a little for. Then, cupping his hands around his mouth, he takes a deep breath so he can project down the entire hall, and shouts, “Hey! You!”

Which stops Harry in his tracks. He turns around slowly, and their eyes catch. Louis’ feels the snag of it in his chest, in the way Harry’s face completely lights up, in the happy upturn of his lips he immediately tries to hide. Suddenly it’s a bit difficult to breathe. Louis watches as Harry fakes a delicate frown, making a show of looking around to see if there’s anyone standing near him, and points a finger to his chest with a look of wide-eyed innocence, as if to say _who, me?_

“Yeah,” Louis nods grimly. “You.” He grips his backpack straps and sprints down the rest of the terminal. 

Harry only has enough time to mutter an “Oh, shit,” to himself and hastily pitch all of his belongings to the ground before Louis is flinging himself into the embrace, locking his arms around Harry’s neck and his legs around his hips. Even with the backpack in the way, Harry still manages to catch and hold him, one hand gripping his thigh and the other firmly supporting his ass. Louis feels Harry rock backwards with the force of their impact, teetering back a few steps, but he keeps them upright. They hold on to each other so tightly, far more than Louis’ run-and-leap really called for, but Louis was already having trouble breathing in the first place. He’s not bothered. Harry’s arms fit snug around him, sealing them so close together that Louis can feel the dig of each of the buttons of Harry’s shirt on his own chest. Louis’ hands grasp at the deep curve of Harry’s neck, the jut of his shoulder blade, his fingertips pressing in. They hold on to each other so tightly, the fierceness of it whispering, _Yes, I’m here, we’re both here_ , and rendering the words unnecessary. 

Louis buries his face into the dip of Harry’s shoulder, hiding his grin. “I hate you so much,” he mutters, the heat of his mouth on Harry’s shirt melting away any of the ice in his words.

“Liar,” Harry mumbles back. Louis can hear his smile even though he can’t see it.

“A red eye after a nine hour flight? Fuck,” Louis goes on, “I don’t even _know_ you.”

Harry just titters in his ear, squeezing him tight. “Is anyone staring?” he replies, ignoring him. “Is anyone crying?” 

Louis lifts his head from Harry’s shoulder as Harry gives them a spin. Though it could be mistaken for a loving twirl, in reality it just gives Louis the chance to assess their audience.

“No one’s even looking,” he reports. “How disappointing. Aren’t you supposed to be famous?” 

“All right,” Harry intones, mood effectively killed. “Enough of this then.” He promptly drops Louis back onto his feet. He doesn’t let go of him just yet though, keeping his palms resting at Louis’ waist to steady him. For a moment Harry just gazes at Louis, smiling wide. “Nice jump.”

“Thanks,” Louis grins back. “You’d think we’d practiced that or something.” They have – extensively. From where he’s grasping onto Harry's elbows, holding him out at arm’s length, Louis gives Harry a strictly platonic, observation-only onceover then adds, “Why do you look like Stevie Nicks?”

Harry giggles and looks down at his outfit, bashful. “I don’t know, just like it I guess,” he says, fingers coming up to toy with the chunky beaded necklace hanging against his breastbone.

Louis would be hard-pressed to disagree. “It is a good look,” he nods.

“You, on the other hand, look a bit shit,” Harry offers in response, eying Louis’ all-grey cotton ensemble, his greasy hair standing up in every direction.

Louis makes an indignant noise. “Oi, thanks,” he gripes. “I did just fly across an entire ocean, have a little respect. We can’t all wear skinny jeans and designer labels for international travel like you do.” Louis has been friends with Harry long enough to recognize Saint Laurent when he sees it. They’re going to be flying all night and Harry is runway ready. Absolutely ridiculous. “Give me sweats or give me death, as all these fine Americans would say,” Louis babbles on, flapping a hand at the people sitting nearest to them.

Harry throws his head back and laughs, a loud, honking thing that echoes around the terminal. When he looks down at Louis again, returning the full glow of his attention back to him, Louis has to purse his lips together to try and keep his pleased, preening smile hidden away. They’re standing so close, Louis realizes right then, that he would only have to reach up, twine his fingers into Harry’s hair and guide him forward to bring their lips together. But Louis tries very hard not to think about that.

After two more beats of intense eye contact, Harry laughs once again, quietly to himself this time, then tugs at the side of Louis’ hoodie, gathering him up into another fierce hug. “I missed you so much, Lou,” he mumbles into Louis’ neck.

“So soppy,” Louis teases gently. He still holds Harry close though, and in his arms, Louis finally releases the contented sigh he feels like he’s been holding in for months.

*

It’s very early in the morning when they finally land in Colombia – early enough for the skies to still be dark, smeared with only the faintest touches of morning color, and early enough for Louis to still consider it nighttime. The first sights of South America he can see are only shadowy palm trees and a handful bicyclists cutting through the darkness, blurring their way past the cool glass of the car window Louis rests his head against. His eyes are bleary, his thoughts unfocused and unfiltered.

After an entire day of travel and next to no sleep, Louis is cranky and on edge. The exhaustion has taken over, leaving him feeling inhuman and short-tempered. He’s already snapped at Harry twice for no good reason, and he feels like such a dick for it. This is supposed to be a time for their mutual happiness, not a chance for him to make Harry feel small at any given opportunity. Harry is obviously feeling the strain too though, having sunk into an irritable silence that fills the space around them. Louis knows they both just need to sleep, that after they pass out for a few hours and maybe eat some real food, their sharp edges won’t feel so rough against each other. He watches the road as it disappears in front of his eyes, and he waits.

The floodlights of the hotel entrance make Louis’ eyes burn and skin prickle when he and Harry finally stumble out of the car and shuffle into the building, trailing behind a caravan of crew members. On standby while someone else gets everyone checked in, they both slouch down onto a hard loveseat in the lobby to wait, leaning into each other’s sides. Louis rests the center of his forehead against the pointy jut of Harry’s shoulder, listening to the giant wall clock tick time away next to them, praying for soft pillows and blackout curtains.

The security guy returns to them an impossible length of time later, to press keycards into Harry’s palm and shepherd their tired, clumsy feet along, first onto an elevator and then into their room. While Louis is fairly certain there had been a keycard for each of them, having two rooms wasn’t even a necessary precaution – not when Harry just swipes them both through the first door they reach and guides Louis in with him, the tips of his fingers brushing between Louis’ shoulder blades.

Walking into the bedroom, Louis has never been happier to be dressed head to toe in cotton before. After he tosses his bags down onto an awaiting chair and kicks off his shoes, Louis has nothing left to do but flop face-first onto the bed – no changing required. The noise he makes when he lands on that soft, soft mattress falls somewhere between a brutal yawn and a blissed out groan. Elsewhere in the room he can hear Harry tugging off his belt and stripping out of his clothes, but Louis can’t be bothered to care about a single thing right now – not even Harry Styles’ naked body. Eyes still closed, Louis maneuvers around just enough to get himself under the covers, rolls over onto his side, and passes the fuck out before Harry has even managed to collapse into bed next to him.

He doesn’t dream about anything at all. 


	2. Chapter Two

Louis is still drifting in that strange, half-asleep place of distant awareness when he feels a warm, humid blast of air filter in from the bathroom. Harry has obviously woken up before him and finished taking a shower, but Louis attempts to ignore both of those facts in favor of sleeping his jetlag away for the entire day. It doesn’t last long, of course, not when Harry bounces back onto the bed beside him a few minutes later and settles in close – purposefully jostling Louis as much as he can.

“Mmpf,” Louis groans, burying his face further into his pillow and attempting to pull the comforter up to his neck. It doesn’t work very well with Harry on top of all the sheets.

“Louuuuiiiis,” Harry singsongs, drumming his fingers on Louis’ back. “It’s after noon, time to get up.”

“Nooo,” Louis mutters feebly. Limbs still heavy with sleep, he doesn’t even have it in him to fight back when Harry begins to bundle him up in his arms, cocooning Louis in his nest of blankets against his chest. All he can offer is a mumbled, “I do hope you have clothes on.”

Harry scoffs, indignant. “Of course I do.”

Given his history, Louis is far from convinced. He does genuinely hope Harry has clothes on, though – there will be no awkward boners on this trip, not if Louis can help it.

They cuddle on in peaceful silence, snuggled together listening to the air conditioner under the window flick on and off, the long afternoon light beaming in through the open curtains. Harry stays curled around Louis, close enough that Louis can feel his warm, minty breath fanning across his face, heartbeat thrumming against his arm, until Harry pulls away with a groan. “You really stink, Lou,” he says, shifting back. “You need to shower.”

Louis lets out an offended snort. “Very complimentary, Harry,” he mutters, still not opening his eyes. “First you tell me I look a bit shit and now I stink.”

“Those are facts, not opinions,” Harry replies easily. “You always look good to me. And you know I love your man-musk.” 

At that, Louis finally manages to peel his eyelids apart, a sharp retort at the ready, but the words die a quick death in his throat when he takes in the sight of Harry lying so close to him, his face just a palm’s length away. He’s still flushed from the heat of his shower, cheeks pretty and pink, damp hair framing his face as it dries in soft curls. There’s one long ringlet, perfect as a curled ribbon, flopped over onto the wrong side of Harry’s part, and Louis has to resist the urge to brush his hand across the planes Harry’s face and return it to its rightful place. Most shockingly, Louis notes, is the fact that Harry _is_ actually wearing clothes. Upon further inspection though, Louis begins to think that Harry being covered doesn’t help much at all, not when the white slub t-shirt he’s got on only serves to make him look even more soft and appealing.

Wide eyes clear and green, Harry returns Louis’ searching gaze with equal intensity. A small, creased ‘u’ appears between his brows the longer time crawls on without Louis saying anything. “What?” he chuckles, smiling at him curiously.

Louis has never had an issue with being honest, at least not about the little things. That’s maybe half of his problem - he can’t keep his mouth shut when he’s really better off being silent, and he can’t open up when it would make his life far simpler to do so. 

“Well don’t do that,” Harry laughs again. “Pretty soon you’ll find something you don’t like.”

Louis’ eyes wander over Harry’s face once more, taking in every feature he’s loved so dearly for so long. “Nah,” he breathes out. “Don’t think so.”

The puzzled quirk of Harry’s smile stays on his lips but the dip between his eyebrows deepens, like he’s not quite sure how to take Louis’ answer. This conversation has veered so far off course that Louis doesn’t even know which direction they’re going in anymore. He gives himself four seconds of silent, internal panic before he decides removing himself from the conversation altogether is his best move. Shaking himself out of Harry’s arms, Louis struggles to free himself from the tangle of bed sheets and stalks off to the bathroom, calling a, “Guess I will shower after all,” over his shoulder at a bewildered Harry.

 _It is day fucking one_ , Louis scolds himself as he rips a fresh towel down from the rack. _Get a hold of yourself._

*

They spend their first day in South America wandering through the streets of Bogotá, shopping at the markets, exploring the gardens. They buy fresh-squeezed juice and warm _arepas_ from vendors on the streets and sticky their fingers on a dripping wedge of fresh pineapple they pass back and forth between themselves. They walk along the Ciclovía, watching all of the bikers and skaters and street performers, bopping along to each spot of live music they pass along the way.

Louis, dressed in his summeriest cut off shorts and vest, spends most of the day freezing his ass off. Bogotá is a lot chillier than he had anticipated, and he only nags Harry about it every single time a cloud passes in front of the sun, an accompanying shiver skittering its way down his spine.

“You promised me hot, Harry,” he complains, shrugging on a jacket as cool, fat raindrops begin to dot the pavement around them. “How am I supposed to work on my tan when it’s _raining?_ ”

“We're in the Andes,” Harry replies. “What did you expect? It’s the highlands.”

“You _know_ how terrible I was at geography in secondary!”

“Your phone will tell you anything these days, Lou,” Harry answers with a patronizing smile. “All you have to do is ask.” 

Louis only relents his whining when Harry promises him sunshine as soon as they get to Brazil.

No matter what the temperature is, Louis is never as pressed about it as he makes himself seem. He already feels more recharged than he has in the entire past year, dashing between the wide storefront awnings to get out of the rain, pressing giggles into Harry’s damp shirtsleeves as they sway through the streets of Colombia together. It’s a perfect day, and he and Harry fall into each other like an old habit, like it’s just another endless summer day picked right out of their childhood, just another rainy afternoon in London they’ve managed to escape their flat for. Like they’ve never been apart from each other at all. 

Really, the only differences between then and now are the security detail trailing behind them, the fan pictures Harry stops for – always smiling at the cameras as wide as he can, always giving hugs to those who ask politely enough – and the never ending cell phones pointed in their direction. Although the people taking sneak pictures probably think they’re being sly, Louis still spots them every single time. It’s not just paranoia when he feels like they’re constantly being watched. Harry, on the other hand, has apparently learned how to ignore the endless, unsolicited attention entirely, going about his shopping like he hasn’t another care. His obvious familiarity with the scrutiny makes Louis’ heart sink a bit. Harry deserves everything in the world – his privacy and leisure shouldn’t have to be a luxury.

All of it only serves as another startling reminder to Louis that he’s walking next to someone famous, not just mucking around on holiday with his best friend. Now, Louis is truly seeing this other side of Harry – the one Louis often has a hard time equating with the Harry he’s known the better part of his whole life.

Seeing Harry on stage has always been an interesting and sobering experience for Louis, even in the early days, and it’s no different now, watching the shows from the sound booth each night. Harry is perhaps one of the most genuine versions of himself when he’s performing, flouncing about and flipping his hair, blowing kisses and jabbering with fans between songs, teasing them as he sings, dancing like a fool, and just generally being the charming goofball who’s always been able to make Louis smile bigger than anyone else. It’s such a joyful scene, and Louis is constantly awestruck by Harry on stage, constantly impressed by his talent and his charisma.

But then again, with a microphone, in front of a crowd, Harry is also untouchable in a way that Louis is completely unfamiliar with. Anyone watching can tell Harry gives his everything on that stage – you can’t tear your eyes away. He’s a giant, larger than life. And despite the little pieces of Harry that Louis can see slipping through – his flamboyance and his intensity, from the wiggle of his hips to the emotion he puts into the words he sings – there’s still something about Harry’s performance that’s just that: a performance. It’s a persona, a display, and it’s unsettling for Louis to watch – if only because it’s something he can’t reach out and hold. But that’s Harry’s job, he supposes; he’s a performer – absolutely born for it too as far as Louis is concerned.

And it hardly even matters, not when backstage, after the concerts, Harry’s still the same as always when he's not surrounded by the jumbotrons projecting his face, the thousands of people screaming his name. Of course he’s still the same, because he’s never actually any different at all, no matter how much Louis might fret. When he slinks out of the crowd to meet up with him after the shows, the person Louis finds isn’t Harry Styles, popstar darling, it’s Harry Styles, his very best mate in the world  – albeit a little sweatier and a little more wired than Louis is used to. He’s always spread out on some surface when Louis arrives – on his belly on top of the empty catering table, lounging on the green room couch, sprawled out across the floor, limbs in every direction – as if he physically needs the space to decompress. Louis can tell Harry’s exhausted after the shows, can see it in the bleary smile he sends his way, in the pallor of his face, but it’s Harry’s own pent up energy, leftover from the stage, that keeps him keyed up long into the night.

Which is why Louis ends up on so many late night runs to all the local eateries in their host cities – to the tiny, authentic restaurants they find tucked behind shoe shops, the streetside cafés open to the cool night air. On nights after shows, they go to all the hot tourist spots Louis demands to see, to the hidden places Harry asks the locals about, because if Harry needs to burn off his extra energy after a show, Louis would never be one make him do it alone. Not when Harry was always that same person for him, back when Louis needed to get out of his house when his parents were fighting, when he needed a break from their flat during the all-nighters he pulled in uni. 

So in Bogotá they go out and eat twice-fried _patacones_ , and Louis lets Harry rope him into salsa dancing with the Colombians at the _discoteca_ , and they eventually stumble back into the hotel room at some completely unreasonable hour of the morning, only to have Harry wake Louis up mere hours later for their next adventure.

And after the show in Santiago, Harry brings his camera along as they explore Barrio Bellavista, snapping shots of the things that catch his eye and the people they pass. He also makes Louis stop and take a picture of him in front of Pablo Neruda’s home, _La Chascona_ , who he then gushes about nonstop until Louis is forced to shove another empanada in his mouth.

In Lima, they visit _El Puente de los Suspiros_ , the Bridge of Sighs, and drink _pisco_ sours at every bar. They eat fresh ceviche marinated in citrus juice and buy homemade ice cream from the _gelateria,_ giving themselves brainfreeze as they overlook the ocean. They pull up their hoods to move undetected through the crowds at the [Magic Water Circuit](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=whRr8vwH3Nw), watching the fountains in awe, running around the mazes and under arches of shooting water, the mist and the evening air cool on their warm cheeks. The water, glowing and dancing around them, is like magic.

Under the cover of a perfect South American night, it’s like everything they do together is magic.

Louis is exhausted, though. He doesn’t know how Harry can survive _performing_ on such little sleep, not when Louis can hardly even _exist_ after all the effort they exert going exploring every day and night. Louis’ cushy London life was probably not very adequate preparation for the relentlessness of life on tour, admittedly.

He loves every second of it. 

They have a lot of downtime as well, which alternates between being either refreshingly relaxing or mind-numbingly dull, depending on how much time Louis has to be alone with his thoughts. Unsurprisingly, Harry has to spend a good portion of that downtime working, rehearsing and doing interviews and the like; Louis, left to his own devices, trapped in an empty venue, often struggles to keep himself occupied.

If they aren’t busy with soundcheck, he can sometimes convince Niall and the rest of the band, and if he’s lucky, Alberto, Louis’ favorite member of the security team, to play footie with him in the empty car park. When that’s not the case, however, Louis will rustle up a skateboard out of the back of one of the trailers and make laps around the open arenas, or attempt to sweet-talk someone from hair and makeup into playing ping pong with him. (The table is a staple on all of Harry’s tours). Other times he just hangs out backstage, smokes a bowl with Zayn and scrolls endlessly through his phone. Every once in awhile he’ll even pull out the handmade journal he bought in Bogotá and write, half thought-out words and scribbled notes, dead-eyed smiley faces and dicks on every page.

More often than not though, Louis will try to find a nice, quiet corner backstage, free from any bustling crew members, where he can curl up and catch up on his sleep until Harry is free to entertain him again. Harry has been known to find him tucked away in abandoned dressing rooms, sound asleep against a clothes rack with his chin on his chest and his knees pulled together, feet splayed at odd angles as he snores on.

It's on those days when Harry is actually around that all of the hours spent waiting for a show never seem as endless for Louis. Whether they’re just chilling out and playing FIFA, or stealing golf buggies and wreaking havoc on the more responsible members of the tour, Louis is content in lapping up Harry’s attention wherever he can get it. They don’t even need to do anything at all, really. Just slouched down on a couch next to one another, the conversation never lulls between the two of them. They catch up on things that happened since they last saw each other – not that there’s much to say, not when they stay in constant contact no matter where in the world Harry is – and gossip about their coworkers and Liam and their other friends from home. They each go through their camera roll s, Louis sharing his massive collection of pictures of his siblings, touting the birthdays and garden parties Harry’s missed, Harry recounting all of his meandering stories about the places and people from tour that Louis missed out on.

Mostly, they just go hours on end spouting pure nonsense at each other. After having spent so much time constantly in each other’s space and in each other’s heads, they’ve basically adapted a language all their own, riddled with stupid inside jokes and smart remarks and the little gestures and touches they trade without really noticing. Niall sits in on their conversation one day, observing their rapid-fire banter, their constant struggle to outdo one another, their _flirting_. His eyes narrow with each joke that goes over his head, each playful squeeze of an arm, until eventually he can’t take it anymore and has to excuse himself from the room; Louis would maybe feel guilty about leaving Niall out if he wasn’t so desperate to have Harry’s attention all on himself – didn’t _crave_ it after their time spent apart.

It's frightening how easy Louis finds it to insert himself into tour life now, to ease himself back into Harry and the private little world they’ve always had around each other. Even though he’s only a week into this holiday and Louis knows he shouldn’t be thinking about the end of it already, he can’t help but wonder how much it’s going to hurt when it does come. Because South America is a dream, but the most frightening part of it all is how much Louis doesn’t want to have to give up Harry again in the end.

*

“Wooooow this is big,” Louis exclaims, voice projecting and reverberating around the empty outdoor arena.

It’s the third tour date, the second night in Santiago, Chile, and Harry and the band are just finishing up soundcheck. Normally Louis would spend this bit out of the way and out of everyone’s business, but today, Harry had insisted he come along. Still, not wanting to distract Harry from his work, Louis had spent most of soundcheck wandering up and down the aisles of empty plastic folding chairs, zip-tied together in rows, trying to keep himself scarce as Harry and the band worked their way through the setlist. It didn’t seem to help much though, not when Harry just followed Louis around from the catwalk, hamming it up for his one-man audience. Although Louis had tried his best to ignore all of Harry’s prancing and keep him on task, he’s not sure how much he succeeded in the end. For Louis, Harry is pretty unignorable by default.

Eventually someone smart had decided Harry wasn't accomplishing enough and called it quits for the day. That’s when Harry had invited Louis onto the stage.

“Hey, you!” he’d called into the mic, shielding his eyes against the sun as he pretended to seek out an audience member among the sea of empty white chairs. “You there! With the ugly sweatshorts!” 

Which had Louis stopping in his place in a row near the middle of the catwalk, turning to narrow his eyes at Harry. Skipping in his direction, Harry had only dimpled at him, turning his palms up and shrugging as if to say, _well it’s true._

He came to halt in front of him. “C’mon,” he'd said, stuffing his microphone into the back pocket of his jeans and holding out his hands, waggling his fingers at Louis. “Wanna show you something.”

Louis stared at him incredulously. “You think you can pull me up on stage?” he’d asked, skeptical. “No thanks, I’d rather not break my back today. Aren’t there stairs somewhere?”

“Stairs? You want me to get attacked on stage or something?” Harry had scoffed. “C’mon, Lou. I can lift you up, no problem.”

And it never does take much more than that for Louis to give in. Heaving a sigh, he’d reached up, grabbed a hold of Harry’s wrists, and allowed himself to be hoisted up from the floor, the soles of his shoes scrabbling against the side of the stage for leverage. In an impressive display of both strength and coordination, Harry'd even managed to keep both of them upright and not send them tumbling to the ground.

Louis, pretending he wasn’t impressed, got huffy about it instead. “Bet the girls love it when you pull 'em on stage like that,” he’d blustered, brushing himself off as Harry led them to the main part of the stage.

“Can’t do it with fans,” Harry replied over his shoulder. “It’s a liability.”

“Wow. Guess we’ll just write me off for damages then,” Louis muttered back, miffed.

Harry just smirked at him. “Think of it more as exclusive access,” he suggested with a wink.

Indignant, Louis was ready to open his mouth to respond again, but all of his additional scathing commentary had been cut off as they finally reached the front of the stage. Stopping in front of him then, Harry had taken Louis gently by the shoulders, turned him around, and with a dramatic wave of his hand, presented him with the vast expanse of the arena, open and waiting before them. Louis’ jaw had dropped.

He’s still astounded by the view now, by the rush of adrenaline kicking up in his veins as he explores the stage, carefully stepping around crew members doing something important with a tangle of electrical cords. Objectively, Louis had known Harry’s job was impressive, that there was something about all of this that kept Harry coming back for more, but it’s so different seeing and experiencing it for himself. Lips parted in awe, he pauses to look over at Harry, who’s still just grinning at him, nearly vibrating in place with all of his eagerness.

“It’s so _big_ ,” Louis repeats dumbly. Harry just nods excitedly, hands clasped together under his chin.

Louis can’t even imagine what it’s like being up here in front of an actual audience, in front of entire sold-out arenas like Harry is used to. To have thousands of people screaming your songs back at you, faces turned up and glowing in admiration while they shout your name. The kind of power that must come with that…Louis understands why Harry loves it so much. He was built to be adored.

“It’s incredible,” Louis murmurs, just loud enough for Harry to hear him. He turns back to him, and Harry smiles softly.

Just as soft, he replies, “I know.”

The way he says it, Louis realizes right then that Harry is sharing something special with him in this moment. Something Harry holds close to his heart, maybe something not a lot of other people get to see in this way. And it's so intrinsically _Harry_ that Louis feels like he's been given a gift just by getting to experience it. He's blown away once again. 

“Thank you,” he says with utmost sincerity, meeting Harry’s eyes.

Harry just waves him off. “No need to thank me,” he says, uprooting himself from where he’s been standing to move closer to Louis. “It’s not really _mine_. I just get up here and, you know, pretend to be important for a couple hours every night.”

At that, Louis frowns. “That's not true at all,” he gently disagrees. “You are important, and to a lot of people too. Especially to all of the people who fill places like this up for you every night.” 

Louis doesn’t think it’s necessary to include the _and to me too_. That’s something that’s always been well understood between the two of them.

When Harry just shrugs bashfully, ducking his head, Louis decides to let the conversation dissolve. Someday soon he will let Harry know exactly how special he thinks he is – more special than even Harry believes he’s capable of. But for now, Louis just pockets those feelings like he always does and turns to the microphone stand, vacant in front of him.

He gestures toward it. “May I?” he asks. He wouldn’t want to overstep, though Louis rather thinks Harry bringing him up here in the first place was an invitation in and of itself.

“Of course,” Harry concedes.

He retreats back to where he had been standing before, giving Louis space, and it's then that Louis realizes that Harry is actually giving him the _stage_. The thought of it sends his heart galloping in his chest. Gathering his courage, he steps forward to the waiting microphone stand, where Harry’s mic has been returned to its rightful place in the holder. He clears his throat into it awkwardly to start, listening to the sound as it echoes around the arena. A small thrill swims in Louis’ belly, and a smile sneaks onto his lips. He hasn’t done this sort of thing in so long he’s actually nervous. Even though no one is paying him any attention apart from Harry, he still feels it in his trembling hands, in the fluttering feeling in his chest.

Louis will have none of that, though. Swallowing both his nerves and his pride, he reaches out to grip the mic stand, committing to this. Then, without hesitation, Louis takes a deep breath, opens his mouth, and starts to sing.

“ _We were as one, babe, for a moment in time. And it seemed everlasting, that you would always be mine_.”

It's the first song that pops into his head, and Louis regrets the choice almost as soon as the first words come out of his mouth. Given the amount of nineties music Harry's been forcing him to listen to backstage, Louis blames him entirely.

Flushing, Louis cringes to himself but keeps going. “ _Now you wanna be free, so I'll let you fly. ‘Cause I know in my heart, babe, our love will never die._ ”

His voice rings out, clear and high and resonant, echoing back at him across the arena. From somewhere to the right of him, Louis can hear Harry cackling delightedly. Though he’s not laughing out of spite, Louis still straightens his spine, urging himself to make it through at least the first chorus. He will never suffer such humiliation without his dignity.

“ _You'll always be a part of me_ ,” he sings. “ _I'm part of you indefinitely. Boy, don't you know you can't escape me? Ooh darling, 'cause you'll always be my baby.”_

Closing his eyes, Louis concentrates on keeping his pitch, actually putting himself into the song, seeing how far he can go with it now. “ _And we'll linger on, time can't erase a feeling this strong. No way, you're never gonna shake me...”_

Then, pausing to take a breath between the words, Louis chances a glance at Harry. And when he finds him just standing there, grinning at him so warmly, the stage lights twinkling in his eyes, Louis immediately realizes his mistake. He curses himself for singing this particular song, for looking over to Harry when he ought not to have. For having thought about him in the way the lyrics describe at all.

Heartbeat stuttering, Louis doesn't bother looking away from Harry as he finishes the song. Bodily turning to face him, ever the showman, he ends the song with one last, strong, “ _Ooh darling, 'cause you'll always be my baby_ ,” then drops his hands, steps away from the microphone, and promptly dissolves into laughter.

 _Always be my baby._ The words ring in Louis’ ears, a confession to himself at the very least, if not to the entire world. It's like admitting defeat to his own relentless feelings, and Louis can't help but laugh at himself for it. He's absolutely hopeless for this boy, he realizes. In love with his best friend, and Louis wouldn't even want to have it any other way.

He's shaken out of his thoughts when Harry rushes him, slamming into his side, forehead crashing into Louis’ shoulder as he slings his arms around his waist.

“Mariah?!” he shrieks. Louis howls with laughter as Harry picks him up into the air for a moment, squeezing him tight. “That was so good, Lou! Holy shit!”

He practically throws Louis back onto the ground, dropping him so hard Louis has to stumble forward to regain his footing. Controlling his giggles, Louis assumes a supercilious tone, circling his hands in the air affectedly as he declares, “Thank you, thank you. I’ll be signing autographs at the gate. Please, no photographs.” 

Harry snorts and shoves him to the side, breaking Louis out of character. They both burst into breathless laughter again, leaning into each other as they hold their bellies. The crew members working on stage move around them seamlessly, ignoring their antics entirely. 

“You’re a natural,” Harry says once they’ve sobered more, shaking a finger at Louis. “Might have to add backing vocalists just to keep you on,” he teases.

“Please,” Louis scoffs. “Like you need any backing vocalists.”

Harry doesn’t even blink. “And like you’d ever be just a back-up singer,” he replies, going suddenly earnest. Louis makes a dumb face at him but Harry only gets more adulatory. “I’m serious, Lou. You’ve got one of the best tenors I’ve ever heard,” he gushes. “It’s so unique. And don’t think I’ve forgotten our year twelve production of Grease that _you_ starred in, I might add. ”

He pokes Louis once in the chest. Louis hasn’t forgotten it either – it remains a shining highlight of his younger years. Harry had jokingly bought him a bouquet of roses \, which Louis remembers blushing furiously over while attempting to play it cool. Although he’s secretly quite chuffed by all of Harry’s compliments, Louis just rolls his eyes, shrugging off the praise.

“Your voice can do so much,” Harry keeps going. “You emote so well, you could carry a chorus easily. And leading a harmony? Oh, man, I can just – yup, that’s it,” he cuts himself off abruptly, going stoic. “I’m hard,” he shrugs, like it just can’t be helped.

Louis sneaks a glance down at Harry’s crotch before he can think better of it. He’s not actually, but it shocks a peal of laughter out of Louis nonetheless.  _Completely ridiculous_ , he thinks, filled to the brim with affection. “I’m actually going to push you off the stage,” Louis laughs.

Harry's eyes go alight with mischief. “You wouldn’t dare,” he sneers back, face split in half with a grin. He yelps, eyes widening in alarm when Louis just raises his eyebrows at him and lunges. Harry takes off down the catwalk, putting some distance between himself and Louis’ reaching hands. “Don’t damage the talent!” he shrieks over his shoulder. 

Louis cackles madly, chasing after him. He catches up with him about halfway down the length of the stage but, magnanimously, decides not to shove him off the stage in the end. Instead, Louis just slings an arm around Harry’s shoulders, slowing him down until they’re walking side by side. Harry drops his arm around Louis’ shoulders in return, falling right into step with him, their hips knocking as they sashay down the catwalk together.

A moment later, he leans in close. “You really are very talented, Louis,” he says lowly, sincerely. Louis can feel his wide, warm eyes staring intently at the side of his face.

Louis just laughs, his heart bursting in his chest. “Guess we’ll have to form a duo then,” he replies loftily. He bumps Harry’s cheek with his knuckles. “C’mon, let’s go sing something stupid on the B stage.”

*

From Chile they fly straight to Brazil, going directly from the venue to the airport as soon as the show is finished. Louis is instructed to be waiting backstage before the encore even starts. When Harry rushes back to meet him, he only has to grab a bottle of water and change out of his sweaty shirt before they’re ready to be shuffled along to the convoy of SUVs waiting outside. Harry hasn’t even managed to catch his breath, still ragged from his final run up and down the catwalk, by the time they’re rolling out onto the street.

Louis doesn’t think he could ever get used to the pace of touring. It’s such a shock to his system, and so different from how he’s used to time moving with Harry. Living in London, the two of them could hardly be bothered to peel themselves off the couch on most nights, the cushions form-fitted to their respective asses. They were never in any sort of hurry, perfectly content to arrive wherever they needed to be whenever they so desired. There was never any rush, not for Louis to get to class, not for Harry to get himself to his shitty part-time job, and not for them to move on to whatever was supposed to happen next. But on tour, despite it being micromanaged nearly down to the minute, every moment can feel so harried it makes Louis’ head spin. He’s very much out of his element, and he feels it too. Yet, over everything else, it’s Harry Louis can’t help himself from worrying about – about the wan look on his face when he hasn’t had even a moment to think, let alone breathe; about the purple circles thinning the skin under his lashes and the way he clenches his eyes shut when no one is looking, like he’s just trying to regain his bearings.

Louis knows Harry loves his job, but everything can take its toll after long enough. Louis has seen Harry at his most lackadaisical; is intimately familiar with Harry as a creature of comforts. As much as he likes to stay busy, immersing himself in life and in others, Louis also knows that Harry likes to spend weekends in his bed doing as little as possible. That he talks slow when he wants to say something just right and likes putting honey on buttered toast and spending time with his mum at home in Cheshire, where not a single boundary will be pushed, not a step has to be taken outside of his comfort zone. Louis knows Harry chooses to reread his favorite books until they’re worn and dog-eared instead of buying something new, and always goes to the same vintage shops Louis teases him about incessantly; that he buys the same scent of candle because it’s what he likes best and when he has to go to Tesco, he always gets the same kind of cereal and shitty three pound wine they’ve been drinking since Louis was in uni.

Louis knows Harry by heart, which means Louis knows how Harry likes to spread himself out, not spread himself thin. And it’s that knowledge that makes Louis wonder and worry if all of this – the never-ending schedule, the grueling hours, the inability to turn _off_ – might be running Harry a little too thin. 

He’s sitting across from Harry on the plane as he thinks about all of this, watching him blink slowly at the travel Scrabble board spread out in front of them, his fingers absentmindedly toying with the letter tiles in his tray as he waits for Louis to finish his turn. Louis has long since lost track of the tour schedule, but he’s fairly certain Harry has a few days off as soon as they touch down in Brazil. Seeing the weary lines splintering on Harry's face tonight, Louis intends to utilize those days for exactly what they are – a break.

“Well, I’m fucked,” Louis announces abruptly, breaking the silence that’s drawn between them. “I have no vowels, it’s all over for me.”

He actually has all of the right tiles to spell out ‘quartz,’ a massive 24-pointer, and he’s perfectly set up for a double word score, but Louis is nothing if not merciful. Harry likes to think of himself as something of an authority on Scrabble, even if Louis’ masterful use of the word ‘vibey’ the last time they played all but forced him to relinquish the title. Louis wouldn’t want to have to ruin his night again.

Harry frowns quizzically but follows Louis all the same, dumping his tiles back into the cloth bag and folding up the board. Once the game has been safely stowed away, Louis gathers up his things, unbuckles himself from his seat and moves over to sit next to Harry. He’s finding the private planes Harry travels by to be much more accommodating than regular commercial airlines, though the complementary blanket he’s been given leaves much to be desired. Wiggling around on his bum until he’s situated, Louis kicks his feet up on the opposite seat, throws the blanket over himself, and settles in for the rest of the flight.

Once he’s finally stopped squirming, Louis looks over at Harry, who’s been watching him nestle around in amusement. “Comfy?” Harry asks, raising his eyebrows at him.

“Very much so,” Louis agrees, smiling up at him. He pats his shoulder invitingly. “Come now, you look tired. Rest your sleepy head on ol’ Louis’ shoulder, there we go,” he says, guiding Harry’s head down to the crook of his neck, generously petting his curls after Harry has tentatively relaxed against him.

“’S nice,” Harry mumbles. Louis can feel his lips crooking into that small smile of his against the cotton of Louis’ jumper. “Thanks.” 

Shoulder to shoulder with Harry, listening to his breaths slowly lengthen, Louis feels more comfortable than he can remember ever being on a plane, even if sleep does still feel like more of a distant idea awaiting him in a Brazilian hotel room than it does a reality. But as Harry cozies up closer to him, pulling Louis’ blanket over them both and gently wrapping an arm around Louis’ elbow to prop himself up, Louis lets his eyelids fall shut, his head drift down to rest on top of Harry’s. A tiny smile crooks up the corners of Louis’ lips. Reveling in the feeling of being tucked perfectly into Harry’s side, their bodies fitting together just like they always have, Louis can’t pretend that offering up his shoulder to Harry like this was an entirely selfless act. Not when he just wants to be _near_ Harry like this. All the time.

Louis would never be able to fool himself out of his own feelings, but he does wonder just how obvious he’s been being about them; if he’ll even be able to leave this continent without exposing his true feelings one way or another. He and Harry have always been affectionate with each other – affectionate enough to confuse even those acquaintances that knew they were nothing more than friends – but after all their time spent apart, Louis can no longer tell if he’s capable of playing anything other than the lovesick fool. And as he lets his thoughts pull him under, the ambient roar of the plane engines going fuzzy in his ears, Louis wonders if he even really cares to hide it anymore.


	3. Chapter Three

Louis can’t remember what it’s like to arrive at a hotel during actual business hours. It’s just routine now, shuffling out of a rental car and into another lobby in the middle of the night then falling bleary-eyed into bed with Harry. They’re still sharing a room – Louis thinks the people in charge came to some unspoken agreement a while ago and decided to cancel his individual reservations after they realized he and Harry weren’t keen on spending their nights apart. Last week, Louis also spent a fair amount time considering what assumptions this has likely led everyone in the crew to believe about the two of them before he realized he didn’t actually care.

It’s quickly become one of his favorite parts of the trip, falling asleep with the warmth of Harry beside him, waking up to his pillow-creased face and heavy morning eyes, his curls bent at funny angles from burying his head between their stacks of pillows in the night – an odd habit Louis fondly remembers from childhood sleepovers and the few times Harry crawled into his bed when they shared a flat. Though he knows their lives are no longer as simple as his memories, there’s still nothing Louis would like more than to have Harry in bed with him every morning. And Louis is well past the point of feeling guilty about it now – he’s just trying to enjoy it while he can, especially on mornings like this.

Louis is starfished on his back across three-fourths of the bed, covers rucked up under his leg and one arm thrown haphazardly across Harry’s back when he first comes to. Groggy and out of place, Louis can’t seem to understand why he’s awake already, though Harry stirring next to him might have something to do with it. The sun is barely beginning to rise on the other side of the window, and Louis doesn’t even have to open his eyes to know they’ve only been off the plane and in bed for a few hours now. It’s still alarmingly early, and Louis refuses to be conscious.

Harry, on the other hand, seems to have something else in mind. Shifting under his arm again, Louis feels it when Harry rolls over onto his back and reaches both of his hands above his head, stretching long and languorous from his fingers down to his toes. The bed trembles as he folds himself out to his full height, his abs tensing under the back of Louis' hand and his feet dropping off the end of the bed. His back pops once, twice, three times before Harry finishes his stretch with a quiet, satisfied groan, toes the covers off himself, and falls still once again. Mind hazy and wandering, Louis is distantly surprised when Harry actually stays that way. But just as he’s beginning to think he’s lucked out of another early morning – that Harry’s going to go back to sleep instead of forcing them out of bed – he hears Harry’s hair rustle against the crisp pillowcase as he turns his head in Louis’ direction, checking to see if he’s awake. Louis, preemptively refusing to get up before dawn again, keeps his breathing steady, his eyelids heavy enough to stay drawn.

A beat passes. He waits for Harry to start prodding him awake, enticing him out of bed with whatever new South American lark he’s got planned, but the feeling never comes. Instead, seemingly satisfied that he hasn’t managed to wake Louis up, Harry reaches up to where Louis' arm is still resting against the flat of his tummy and easily, delicately, takes Louis' smaller hand into his own. Their fingers gently twine together in the loose circle of Louis’ fist, and Louis, drifting, half in dreams again, can’t stop himself from murmuring out a quiet, blissful hum at the softness of Harry’s touch.

Outside the window there’s birds chirping, cars honking and fragments of a shouted conversation getting lost a street away - the sounds of the city waking up and rising out of the humid night - but in their muted hotel room, time goes still. The moments draw on, seconds seeming to spiral into infinity instead of ending as Harry just...lays there. Holding Louis’ hand.  And Louis lets it happen, hovering just close enough to wakefulness to be aware of it. He doesn’t know how long they stay like that, the brush of their fingers all but lost to the blurry beginnings of another dream, but it can’t be for more than a few moments. Long enough for Louis to get used to the feeling, for a warmth to start to stir behind his sternum. Then, with a gentle squeeze of his fingers, Harry - still trying very hard not to disturb his rest - tightens his grip, picks Louis’ hand up off his stomach, and deposits his arm back on Louis’ side of the bed. 

“Bed hog,” Louis hears him mutter.  He wiggles around in place, finally able to move freely now that he’s not trapped under the weight of Louis’ arm.

Louis snuffles out a laugh. Shifting slowly over onto his side, he brings his limbs back to life, arms tucking back against his chest, legs bicycling and twisting further in the sheets. He smacks his mouth, smoothing his tongue across his dry, cracked lips. “Heard that,” he whispers.

The opposite side of the bed dips then lifts as Harry leaves it, his answering chuckle low and warm. Still not opening his eyes, Louis frowns and clumsily reaches out for one of Harry's limbs to drag him back by. Finding nothing, his sleep-heavy arm drops back down across the mattress, defeated. “Where are you _going_?” he croaks out.

Their current hotel in Rio de Janeiro is very much the same as the last half dozen they’ve stayed at in terms of slow elevators and lifeless taupe walls, but it still might be the most posh yet. Their room is huge, with a massive king size bed covered in lush white covers, thicker than Louis’ pinky finger, and a balcony overlooking the private pool, the far-reaching scope of the city. Louis is also particularly fond of the plush pillowtop mattress and the fuzzy bathrobe he'd insisted on sleeping in last night. Given his plans to lazily waste away their next few days off, staying in bed right now feels like the perfect way to start; Louis can't possibly comprehend why Harry is so insistent on leaving it.

“Gonna g’for a run,” Harry answers, his morning-rough voice close.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Louis rasps. “It’s the bloody morning, get back in bed.”

He feels Harry kneel one leg against the mattress as he leans over to scratch at Louis’ scalp, ruffling his rumpled hair. Louis exhales slowly at the touch, melting further into the bed. “Not tired anymore,” Harry says, smoothing Louis’ hair away from his forehead for a moment. Then, using Louis’ head as leverage to heave himself off the bed, he shoves Louis’ face further into the pillow and steps away. “I’ll see you in a bit.” 

Louis curls into himself, snuggling indulgently into the warm sheets and the softness of the bed. “You’re out of your mind,” he sighs.

He hears Harry's quiet laugh as he rummages around in his bag, then the soft _click_ of the bathroom door that follows. Louis, still not bothering to work his eyes apart, feels sleep come hovering close once more. He drifts back to sleep before Harry has even left the room, fingers still tingling.

*

The next time Louis fully wakes, it’s to the sound of Harry banging back into the room, stinking of sweat and the outdoors.

“Oops,” he giggles, the door slamming violently into the wall.

Louis hears him trip over something - probably the backpack Louis left by the hall closet last night - then gently bring the swinging door shut behind him. He’s pointedly quiet as he moves into the bedroom, obviously mindful of Louis’ prone form, still unmoving under the covers. Louis has already been half-awake and drifting for about a half an hour, spread out at four points and taking up the entire bed again, so he’s not so mardy about being woken up this time. At least the sun is actually shining in the sky now. Deeming it a decent enough hour to wake up, he curls his toes and starts to stretch, exhaling softly.

When his limbs are loose again, he peels open one eyelid to better observe Harry, who’s still struggling about the room. “Hi,” he rasps. Harry whips his head around, surprised to see him awake. “Are you drunk?”

“Morning!” Harry grins at him, straightening up with one trainer in his hand. “You’re up!”

Louis scowls at his distressingly energetic mood. “Unfortunately,” he grumbles, voice still rough with sleep. Eying Harry suspiciously, he notes, “You seem...spirited this morning. _Are_ you drunk?”

“No, just had a good workout is all,” Harry replies, pulling his other shoe off. “It’s amazing what getting out of bed and getting moving can do for a person.” 

“Ooh, I’m feeling a little called out here,” Louis retorts. He turns onto his side and pulls his knees up to his chest, still watching Harry. He’s in aggressively neon athletic clothes with his hair in a bun, a stretchy magenta headband keeping the wispier curls away from his forehead. He’s not visibly sweaty, though Louis rather gets the feeling he wouldn’t want to move any closer to him at the moment.

Harry just smiles at Louis’ remark. “Not at all,” he says. Lowering himself onto his bum to sit next to his bag, he peels off his damp-looking socks and starts sorting through his piles of clothes. “What do you want to do today?” he asks.

The covers droop around Louis’ waist as he sits up cross-legged, squinting against the sunlight when he tries to fully open his eyes. Harry’s eyes flick up to him then back down to the shirt he’s folding. “Cute hair,” he comments.

Louis runs a hand through his fringe, feeling it sticking up in every direction with yesterday’s lingering hairspray. He snorts, “Thanks.”

“We could try Christ the Redeemer today. Might be a bit crowded though,” Harry goes on. “Or we could visit the World Cup stadium, that seems like something you’d be into. What’s it called? The Macarena? Maraña?”

“Maracanã,” Louis puts in, scratching absently at his bare chest.

Harry snaps his fingers at him. “That’s the one. Or we could go to a beach, haven’t been to the ocean yet. I did promise you surfing, after all. I stopped by this little pastry shop on my run and the owner, her name was Maria, she recommended me a good beach that isn’t too far from here. Said it might not be too busy. We’re going to have to stop by the shop again later this morning, by the way. Maria promised she would give you a fresh piece of her lemon cake since I couldn’t carry one all the way back on my run. It was so good, Lou, oh my god. Oh, or we could -”

“Harry,” Louis says, gently interrupting Harry’s pitch. Harry pauses to look over at him. “You know you don’t have to like, entertain me every day, right?” Louis questions, meeting his gaze. “We don’t have to do something big. Could just have a chill out day, you know. If you want.”

Harry blinks up at him. “Is that what you want?” he asks hesitantly.

“Yeah, I mean,” Louis shrugs. “You only have days off every so often. Don’t you want to like, get away from people for a while? Have some time to relax? Take a nap, maybe?” he suggests. “I _am_ on holiday, it’s not like I’d object to lounging by the pool all day.”

When Louis glances over at Harry again, something in his face has gone slack, a small, warm smile replacing the manic sort of energy that had been there before. 

“That sounds...really nice, actually,” he says softly. “As long as you don’t mind missing out on Rio and all that. This is your trip.”

“And it’s your _life_ , Harry," Louis insists. "You deserve rest too. Besides, I spotted the laundry room last night, right by to the door to the pool. Could go for some clean pants to wear…”

When he trails off, Harry doesn’t say anything in response, instead averting his gaze down to where his fingers fidget with the cloth tag on the shirt in his hands. Louis can still see his dimples where they peek out around the edges of a smile. 

Taking his silence as agreement, Louis slaps his hands against his knees, still covered with a sheet. “That settles it then,” he announces. “Put on that goddamn fuzzy robe, Harry Styles. We’re lounging today.”

Later, once Harry has rinsed away his workout and appeased Louis by changing into the fancy hotel robe and soft slippers, they make their way down to the pool, which, as advertised, is private to hotel guests only. The pool is wide and deep, tiled in lapis lazuli blue and dappled by the light of the high and blinding sun when they arrive. It’s hot enough outside that when Louis dips a toe into the water, it’s nearly bathwater warm. There are two gentle fountains splashing at each end of the pool and wide, loveseat-size lounge chairs with overstuffed striped cushions surrounding the water. They’re more like beds than pool chairs, absorbing Louis’ body entirely when he sinks down into one, sunglasses perched on his nose.

Foregoing the chairs, Harry shucks off his robe and tosses his slippers at Louis as soon as they get there, barely making a splash as he dives smoothly into the water. He surfaces with a huge grin, wet hair curtaining down his shoulders and pool water dripping off his nose.

“You should get in,” he calls, wading over to Louis’ chair at the edge of the pool. “Water’s nice.”

“Sorry, I’m more of the ‘lay out and melt’ type,” Louis replies as he works his hair away from his forehead with one of Harry's elastic hairbands. Harry pouts. “Call Niall, he’ll come play with you,” Louis suggests, pouting back at him.

“Louuuu…”

Louis closes his eyes and settles back against the cushion. “And don’t forget sunscreen,” he reminds. “You know how your delicate English skin likes to burn.”

Harry heaves a sigh and tips back, floating away on his back, his dark hair haloing around him in the water.

A few other guests join them at the pool as the afternoon passes, a family with small kids, a group of girls in bikinis, an older married couple, though hardly anyone even bats an eye at Harry, not even when Niall meets up with them and insists on playing a loud, one-sided game of chicken, perching himself on Harry’s shoulders and ordering him around the pool. Their squawking and splashing around is only background noise to Louis, the sun warming his cheeks and lulling him into a nice drowse. He drifts in and out, only cracking his eyes open again about an hour later when he feels Harry faceplant next to him on the lounger, soaking wet.

"Finally tuckered yourself out, eh?" Louis asks. He draws his fingers through the long, dripping strands of Harry's hair, untangling the chlorine curls. Harry hums happily into the cushion. "About time. I don't think you've stopped moving since we flew into the country."

Harry shifts closer to him, tucking his nose next to Louis' hip, his wrists folded against his chest. His trunks are cold where they brush against Louis' legs, Harry's skin almost clammy compared to the heat of the surrounding air. "Oi, budge over," Louis scowls, shoving at Harry's shoulder. "You're gonna get me cushion all wet."

“Serves you right,” Harry mutters. “Not getting into the water on such a nice day. Makes one consider maybe throwing you in.”

“Not if you value your life,” Louis snarls back.

It’s mostly refreshing, the droplets rapidly evaporating on his overheated skin, but Louis won’t give Harry the satisfaction. “Bastard,” he sighs, beleaguered.

Laughing, Harry sits back against his heels, blinking up at the sunlight as he deftly works his wet hair into a top knot. Louis watches on in fascination, staring at Harry’s fingers as they expertly gather and twist all of his hair up into a bun. Louis has always loved Harry’s hair, how his curls used bunch into perfect ringlets when they were just boys, how he could run his fingers through the glossy softness of it, how Harry’s eyes would go heavy as Louis played with it. His longer hair is just as satisfying now - especially when Harry himself seems to enjoy it so much. It’s so befitting of his character that Louis can barely remember what he looked like back when it was shorter. Harry’s always been gorgeous but he’s even more so now, truly coming into his own. And it makes Louis go dumb. 

Clearing his throat, Louis quickly looks away when Harry glances down at him, not wanting to be caught staring at his hands, the muscles in his arms shifting as he works with the hair tie. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Harry finish the bun, fluffing it up to his liking and patting around his head to make sure he hasn’t missed any flyaway pieces. Then, shifting around on the chair until his head is next to Louis’ feet, Harry spreads himself out on his belly, arms at his sides and legs bent up against the backrest of the lounger. His cheek squashes adorably against the linen of the cushion, his pink lips parting temptingly as he closes his eyes and settles in for a nap.

Louis doesn’t know how long he stares . Long enough for Harry’s breathing to even out, for his fingers to start twitching in his sleep where they curl next to his thighs. When he does finally catch himself, Louis forces himself to rip his eyes away from Harry, surreptitiously adjusting his sunglasses instead, as if that would make anyone think he hadn’t been staring. _Subtle_ , he thinks drolly. Rolling his eyes at himself, Louis checks his watch and heaves himself up off the lounger with a heavy sigh, ignoring the patch of back sweat he’s inevitably left behind as he sets off across the pool area.

Swiping into the hotel with his keycard, Louis hurries to the laundry room, a shiver shaking down his spine when the blast of air conditioning hits his hot skin. No one else appears to be using the laundry facility and Louis is thankful for that, seeing as his clothes have gone ignored for about an hour now.

His fingers are clumsy from the heat as Louis takes the clothes from the dryer and dumps them into a pile on top of it, replacing them with the load from the washer. Harry had thrown some of his own clothes in with Louis’ laundry as well, and Louis works through the assortment in a hurry, folding and separating their pants and shirts into separate piles. It reminds him of their London days, back when Harry would barter a week's worth of dishes duty for Louis to take all of their shit to the laundromat on the weekend. Louis never could figure out why he did it. It was such a terrible bargain because Harry would always come _with_ him, sitting in the secondhand armchairs at the laundromat around the corner from their building, thumbing through the gossip rags with Louis while they waited for their clothes to dry, feet bumping together where they sat with their legs thrown over the armrests.

Louis remembers it all so vividly. His mind is an infinite flipbook of memories, and the best and brightest of them all seem to feature Harry - his dimples, his hands moving as he speaks, his eyes glimmering where he looks down at Louis. A sunny afternoon, poolside in Brazil is only the latest of them.

Louis has been like this for so, so long. Always having to tear his eyes away from Harry at just the right moment to avoid getting caught, forcing his thoughts away from the dark places where he wonders what it’d be like for their skin to touch in a different way, what Harry’s lips might taste like in the morning and in the night. Even though it’s been a while since he’s had the opportunity to submit to them, Louis doesn’t think it’s just the afternoon heat that has him stumbling now.

He finishes the folding and stacks their clothes into a borrowed laundry basket, pushing it to the side of the room to be retrieved later. Shouldering his way out of the laundry room, his thoughts are still circling like vultures as he wanders back outside to the pool, where Niall has finally gotten out of the water and seated himself in a chair next to his and Harry’s lounger. He’s got wayfarers on and his head tipped back, soaking up the sun. Louis steps around him and gingerly settles back in place next to Harry, who’s now soundly asleep, if his snuffled snores are anything to go by. His sides gently rise and fall with each breath, and Louis smiles at him softly. He’s glad Harry’s finally found the time for a nap - he worries about his sleep .

This time, Louis doesn’t bother looking away. Without his sunglasses tinting the world around him, Louis finds himself impossibly drawn to the expanse of Harry’s back, where his skin has gone golden under the late afternoon sun. Louis wants to run his thumb down the dip of Harry’s spine, follow its indent down the entire length of his back. He wants to kiss there too, from the broad planes of Harry’s shoulders to the narrowest part of waist, to where his hips spill out of the top of his pants, begging to be held in Louis’ palms. He wants to feel the buttery softness of Harry’s skin under his mouth.

But, like always, Louis looks but he does not touch. Instead, he fumbles around under the lounger to find the sunscreen he’d hidden away from the heat. It’s the aerosol kind, because Louis hates the way sunscreen makes his fingers greasy and Harry likes to indulge him. Reaching over Harry’s body, Louis holds down the nozzle and sprays a generous coat across Harry’s entire back, which has gone a little pink with all of his sunbathing. He makes sure to get the back of his neck as well, where the shorter pieces of his hair have curled into perfect swirls, and his arms where they’re not tucked under his face. Louis knows how Harry sulks when he’s sunburnt and uncomfortable.

After Harry has been properly covered in a nice layer of SPF 35, Louis puts the sunscreen away again and starts searching around the folds of the cushions for his misplaced sunglasses. Finding nothing under his bum, he glances over to his right to see Niall holding them out for him, peering at him over the top of his own sunglasses.

“Didn’t want your big arse to crush ‘em,” he explains.

“Thanks mate,” Louis chuckles.

Niall nods, unbothered. 

After a pause, he looks back over at him. “You ever gonna tell him?” he asks, apropos of nothing. 

It surprises Louis. He knows Niall is much more observant than he lets on, and it’s not like Louis believes he’s even capable of being inconspicuous. He just wasn’t expecting to get called out on it, is all. "Don't know what you mean," he sniffs haughtily in response.

Niall doesn’t humor him, instead raising his eyebrows at him meaningfully. "Think you should tell him." There’s a weight to his words when he says it.

"Oh, sod off, Nialler," Louis groans. “I am working on it. I just need to pluck up the courage.”

Niall hums. “Don’t need to be brave,” he muses quietly, balancing his bottom lip against the beer bottle in his hand. “Just need to be honest.” 

Louis could laugh, but he doesn’t. More than anything else, their little holiday together has made what he’s needed to do for years now more obvious than ever. And as Harry mumbles nonsense syllables in his sleep, turning so Louis can see his face once more, Louis tells himself that all he needs now is the proper moment.


	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A description of the events that would have taken place in the last chapter, including **snippets of dialogue** I had written.

Harry and Louis attend an awards show in Brazil (think One Direction at 40 Principales in 2014). Harry surprises Louis with a suit for the event, which Louis gripes about:

 

**"This had to have cost a fortune, Haz. I can't -"**

**"I didn't _buy it_ , Louis. It was a brand sample and it didn't fit me. Lou just got it tailored to your size."**

**Louis scowls. "What, were you sizing me up in my sleep then?" he says. "Like a - a boa constrictor?"**

**Harry throws his head back and laughs. "No! It was your mum, she gave me the measurements from the suit you wore for her wedding."**

**Of course. _Traitor_ , Louis thinks.**

 

While Harry walks the red carpet and does interviews at the event, Louis lingers in the background with the rest of the crew until somewhere in the middle of it all, Harry beckons Louis over. The interviewer he's with at the time mistakenly assumes Louis is Harry's boyfriend, and Harry basically laughs it off:

 

**"And this is?" the woman asks, gesturing with her microphone. "Your boyfriend?"**

**Harry laughs. "No, no, no," he says. He places his hand low on Louis' back, drawing him forward. "No, this is Louis. He's my best mate from back home."**

**Something begins to ache deep in Louis' chest. He didn't expect Harry to say anything different, of course - it was the truth, after all. But that still doesn't stop Louis from wishing with all his heart that this poorly informed interviewer would've been right.**

 

The show itself goes smoothly after that, with Harry and Louis joking around together from their seats, and Louis continuing to watch from a distance when Harry goes up to accept the awards he wins. Hurting, but proud of his best friend. Always proud.

There's an afterparty, at which Harry and Louis do a few too many tequila shots and share an accidental kiss. Again, Harry sort of laughs it off as him being so drunk. Louis makes sure they both get back to where they're staying safely, confused and wishing for more between them all the way. It's then, lying awake next to a sleeping Harry, that Louis decides he has to talk to Harry - about everything. He's leaving South America, leaving Harry again, at the end of the week. Louis is running out of time.

The next morning when Louis wakes up, however, Harry is already gone, off doing a press junket for the rest of the day. Louis doesn't see him until the concert that night, when Harry's already on stage.

Louis watches from his usual place by the sound booth, and the concert goes on as normal until the cover song Harry always plays during the encore. Harry picks a different song for every show, usually a song that's a classic or popular in whatever host country he's in at the time. But this concert is different in every way. His introduction is different; Harry starts by saying he's been practicing the song for a long time, and he's running out of chances to play it.

The rest of the band has left the stage at this point, also different than usual. It's just Harry standing at the center of the stage, playing a song on his own with only an acoustic guitar. The song isn't a recent hit, and it's not popular in Brazil. It's a song from Louis and Harry's shared childhood. It's [Dreams, by The Cranberries](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Yam5uK6e-bQ).

As he sings, it's clear that the lyrics are essentially telling the story of Harry's life since he achieved success as an artist: 

 

 _Oh, my life is changing everyday,_  
  
_In every possible way._  
_And oh, my dreams, it's never quite as it seems,_  
_Never quite as it seems._  
  
_I know I've felt like this before, but now I'm feeling it even more,_  
_Because it came from you._  
_And then I open up and see the person falling here is me,_  
_A different way to be._  
  
_Ah, la da ah_  
_La_  
  
_I want more impossible to ignore,_  
_Impossible to ignore._  
_And they'll come true, impossible not to do,_  
_Impossible not to do..._

 

It's here in the song that, very pointedly, Harry looks to where he knows Louis is standing. Louis stands there, frozen. He can't breathe, he knows what's happening, thinks he knows what's coming. Even the fans nearby turn to stare at Louis. They're not getting excited about having Harry's attention on them, because it's obvious where Harry is really looking. The crew is staring at him, the fans are staring at him, but Louis can't look away from Harry.

The song continues, Harry's eyes on Louis the whole time. The way he's singing, it's clearly so important to him:

 

 _...And now I tell you openly, you have my heart so don't hurt me._  
_You're what I couldn't find._  
_A totally amazing mind, so understanding and so kind;_  
_You're everything to me._  
  
_Oh, my life,_  
_Is changing every day,_  
_In every possible way._  
  
_And oh, my dreams,_  
_It's never quite as it seems,_  
_'Cause you're a dream to me,_  
_Dream to me._

 

There's a pause between these last lyrics and the big finish, and in that space, with his eyes, his whole body revealing every emotion he's feeling in that moment, Harry nods just once at Louis - a small indication, barely there, acknowledging everything he's just said through song. Then Harry finally turns away from him, finishing the song. The band has appeared back on stage for the final crescendo, all the drums and guitars kicking in as Harry sings it through to the end.

Louis doesn't stick around to watch it, however. He's running back through the venue, trying to get backstage as fast as he can to find Harry. He doesn't have his credentials with him, his VIP badge, and staff are stopping him at every turn. It's taking too much time, and Louis feels like he's going to explode if he doesn't get the chance to do this now. He finally gets backstage and the show has ended, but Louis can't find Harry anywhere. He searches in all of their usual places, to no avail. He can't find Harry, he can't find Harry, his heart's still about to pound out of chest, and he's near panic until finally, Louis runs right into Harry as Louis is running up the stairs and Harry is going down them.

Harry stops short, startled, and for a long moment, all they can do is stare at each other.

 

**"Hey," Harry says, his hands falling limply to his sides.**

**"Hey," Louis says back.**

**The bare light of the cement stairwell makes Louis' eyes hurt, the sounds of the venue emptying out around them the only noise present in the space between them. Louis can't take it.**

**"You kissed me," he says finally. "Why?"**

**Harry flinches, and Louis hates the very sight of it. "Lou -" he stammers out.**

**"No," Louis says, firm. "We're talking about this. Just tell me why. Why did you sing that song?"**

**Harry's eyes fall closed.**

**"What's going on, Harry?" Louis says softly. He desperately, unsuccessfully, tries not to hope.**

**"Louis," Harry says weakly. "You have to know -"**

**"But I don't know, Harry. I feel like I don't know anything anymore."**

**A pause. "I can't keep doing this," is what Harry says then.**

**And Louis' heart almost falls out of his chest. He, he had thought...**

**"Doing - doing what?" Louis forces himself to say. It comes out as a whisper.**

**"Louis..." Harry finally meets his eyes. Then, emphatically, "I've been in love with you since I was ten years old. And - and I can't keep pretending that -" his voice cracks as he abruptly cuts himself off. Harry shudders out a heavy breath, stares down at his feet. "I'm in love with you," he says, barely audible. "And I'm sorry."**

**Louis just gapes at him. He can't feel anything apart from his heartbeat, pounding against his ribcage. He shakes his head. "I'm an idiot," he mumbles to himself.**

**"What?" Harry sniffles. His eyes are red when he looks up.**

**"I said I'm an idiot," Louis replies. He meets Harry's eyes. "I'm in love with you too."**

**And after all this time, it's really that simple.**

**Now it's Harry's turn to stare. " _What?_ "**

**"I love you," Louis says. He shrugs. "Always have."**

 

They both lean in to kiss but when their lips meet, everything is wrong. Their noses bump, their teeth clack together. Louis snaps his head back with a groan, pressing his fingers to his now-swollen lip. It's the worst first kiss he's ever had, and Louis momentarily panics, thinking they were both completely wrong about this after all, if they can't even  _kiss_ properly. He's broken out of his doubts by Harry laughing, however. He watches as Harry hops down the last step he was standing on above Louis, so they're now at the same level.

 

**"Oops," Harry giggles. "Wasn't quite the angle I'm used to."**

**It shocks a laugh out Louis too. "Shut up," he says, shaking his head. He reaches forward to hold Harry's face in both of his hands again.**

 

Their real first kiss, of course, is perfect and everything Louis had always imagined it would be. A crew member (probably Niall) eventually finds them in the stairwell and shepherds them out of the venue. When they get back to their shared hotel room, they have sex, and it's intimate and emotional, now that they can finally express all of the feelings and desires they've unwittingly shared for so long. Lots of kisses and I love you's are exchanged, and everything that made their friendship thrive translates and adapts perfectly to their romantic relationship. They're perfect for each other. 

*

An epilogue finds Louis and Harry back in an airport together. The South American leg of the tour is over, and Harry is accompanying Louis back to the UK for the break he has before his next round of shows. It's late, they have another long layover. They're laying close on the floor by the window, Louis with his back to the rest of the terminal to keep prying eyes away from Harry, Harry's head pillowed on Louis' arm as they talk quietly.

 

**During a lull in their conversation, Harry says, seemingly out of nowhere, "You know, they have dogs in California. Cats too."**

**Louis turns his head to frown at him, bewildered. Their faces are close. "Are you thinking of adopting?" he jokes.**

 

They laugh. Harry explains that he just meant Louis could do his job out of California too, if he wanted. It makes Louis smile - they both want to make this work, be together, that much is clear. Despite the years they didn't have together like this, they still have so much time left for each other. And Louis knows - despite the distance, despite the difference in their lives - they will.

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you made it this for, thank you so much for taking the time to read what was, as promised, an unfinished work. I was proud of this fic while I was writing it, and I do believe it deserves to be shared. That being said, I hope this ending, though decidedly lacking in some prose, was satisfying for you. If you have any questions about anything I might've left unanswered, feel free to leave a comment and I will do my best to resolve it!
> 
> Again, thank you so much for reading. I love you <3
> 
> [my tumblr](http://mooodlighting.tumblr.com/) \- [fic post](http://mooodlighting.tumblr.com/post/166929686695/in-your-light-by-moodlighting-harrylouis-18k)


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